If I Don't Write To Empty My

Such Partings Break The Heart They Fondly Hope To Heal.

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South

I Live Not In Myself, But I Become Portion Of That Around Me: And To Me High Mountains Are A Feeling, But The Hum Of Human Cities Torture.

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad. As To That Regular, Uninterrupted Love Of Writing. I Do Not Understand It. I Feel It As A Torture, Which I Must Get Rid Of, But Never As A Pleasure. On The Contrary, I Think Composition A Great Pain.